


messy

by schwanenkoenigin



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, F/F, First Meetings, Long-Distance Relationship, POV Second Person, i'm too lazy to convert into third person, sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwanenkoenigin/pseuds/schwanenkoenigin
Summary: camila and lauren are in a long distance relationship and meet for the first time





	messy

**Author's Note:**

> written from camila's pov cause she a mess

You’re happy. For the first time in days, weeks, _months_ , you’re completely, utterly happy, the thoughts of killing yourself are completely banned from your mind—thank God—and you’re happy. So happy.

Until you’re not.

Okay, so, it starts out with a minor thing. Flights all over the continent are delayed, they are fifteen minutes or an hour late, but it’s really not that bad.

(Some get canceled, but only two percent. What’s two percent?)

Plus, your own flight isn’t even concerned, the airline seems to be free of the issues the others had had.

Your girlfriend sends you texts all day, and you smile, laugh at them, even more so than usual, because you’re going to see her tonight. At precisely 10pm you’re going to hold her in your arms, and that’s why you’re so happy. You basically skip all over the place, full of nerves, _yes_ , but happy.

Well, that changes.

You have just arrived at the airport, with that shit-eating grin still present on your face because your girlfriend’s flight is most probably on time, too, along with your parents. You have checked in, dropped off your baggage, and you’re telling your dad about the weather in Miami when–

It all starts to crash. And burn.

Not literally, no plane is involved, but–

You get a text message. _My flight got canceled_ , it reads. It’s followed by what looks like an e-mail your girlfriend has received; it contains her flight information and some other stuff that you can’t comprehend right now. All you see is, ‘canceled.’

You swallow. A huge lump has just formed in your throat, the smile is replaced by a frown, and your heart rate accelerates. Not for the reason it had done that all day. This time, it’s different. Negative. It’s like your stomach sinks, churns, aches.

Your mom notices. “What is it, honey?” she asks, obviously having seen the expression on your face. You turn to look at her, swallowing again, and she immediately becomes more concerned. “What?” she presses.

“Her flight got canceled.”

Your parents proceed to smile empathetically, assuring you it’s going to be alright, telling you there’ll be other flights. That, at the most, one night has been taken away from you.

Even though you don’t _completely_ believe it, you eventually nod, satisfied with the comfort they offer.

You start smiling again, and it lasts.

Until you have to go through security.

You’ve been smiling, believing what your parents have told you, intent on making it to your gate on time. There’s an hour left until your plane leaves, but the moment your mom starts talking about how your girlfriend cannot pick you up herself and that you _need_ to ask her for her brother’s address—you’ll be staying with him and her mother—you break down. Tears start running down your cheeks, you bury your face in your mom’s neck. She whispers soothing things into your ear, and your dad joins in. You let the tears flow freely, not wanting others to see you like this.

After a minute, you break the hug. You straighten your back, turn towards the security checkpoint.

“It’s going to be okay,” your mom repeats, and you, too, repeat it until you’re at your gate.

Like a mantra. “I’m going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

Once you’ve found your gate and have made sure you won’t be late for boarding, you buy alcohol. You swore you wouldn’t drink, a few nights ago, but, _fuck_ , nobody you know is here and you desperately seek to calm your trembling fingers, your racing heart.

It helps, in a way.

Until your girlfriend tells you she’s having an anxiety attack over having to rebook, and until she mentions her ex, Lucy, to you.

You feel guilt, anger, all at the same time. You don’t know why. You have _nothing_ to be guilty about—except being alive—and your anger is irrational. Your girlfriend needs help, and her ex is _there_ , and they’re _over_ , why would you be angry?

You blame it on your illness, try to encourage your partner instead; telling her it’s all going to be alright.

You don’t know if you believe it, have believed it, will believe it yourself, but it’s what she needs to hear—read, rather—and, hell, you _tell_ her. You want her to be better. And since you cannot do anything but text reassuring things, _that_ is what you choose to do.

She tells you her mom’s address at some point, makes sure you know how and where to get a taxi once you’ve arrived at your destination.

You thank her, tell her you love her, and when your boarding starts you quickly type out, _I need to go. I’ll text you when I land. xx_

The flight goes well. You have a massive anxiety attack right at the start of it, but you just take a sleeping pill. It helps instantly.

It takes two hours to fly to Miami.

You buy more alcohol once you’re there, and you drink it. Empty half a bottle. You hadn’t eaten, though, so you just sort of forget whatever the hell happens next. You don’t know if you’re picked up, or if you take a taxi, or if you throw up into a literal stranger’s toilet; all you know is the next time you’re fully aware of what’s happening, you’re in a bed you’ve never seen before, surrounded by a smell unfamiliar to you. Your head is pounding. You feel sick.

You don’t want to check your phone—for one part because you’re a drunk texter and cannot deal with the embarrassment right now; and for another because the brightness of your screen is going to make your head feel worse.

Still, you need to know what time it is and if your girlfriend has news about her flight.

The instant you unlock it, you check your text messages.

You obviously expect everything to be messy. You expect all hell to have broken loose. Because that’s what always happens.

But it hasn’t. Nothing has actually happened. You were sure that, after she told you about her ex and all, that she slept with her, that, like in the movies, she kissed her and slept with her but–

All you read is, _I’m on board. Half an hour until I’m there. Can’t wait. xx_

It's all messy. So messy.

(Or maybe not.)

You’ve waited weeks, months, to meet this girl you sort of already consider to be the love of your life—you’re not going to tell her that, though, you don’t want to freak her out—and now her flight has gotten canceled, and you’ve stayed the night at her family’s house, alone, and your heart won’t stop racing because you know, realistically, that, because her new flight has had to arrive in the past hour, that she’s going to be here soon, and you have absolutely no idea how to react once she is, and also you believed she was going to sleep with her ex because you’re way too insecure but it didn’t happen and–

God, you can’t even imagine _looking_ at her for the risk of _staring_ —you’ve seen how beautiful she is on pictures, and even when receiving _those_ you usually cannot look away—and you can’t pretend to be asleep either–

Except _that_ is exactly what you do. You pretend to be asleep. You can’t come up with anything smarter after having accused her of random crap in your head and–

Yeah. You just– you put the blanket over your face because, right then and there, you’re _sure_ you’ve just heard her voice outside, which means she’s about to enter the room and– and your heartbeat accelerates even more because this woman– Lauren– Lauren _Jauregui_ , who you’ve been into for months, is _there_ and you have to do _something_. Even if, admittedly, it is sort of dumb.

 _Whatever_. It’s not like you can contemplate a lot of other options. She’s _there_. With you–

You’re still busy thinking about your next move when she  _sits_ down on the bed. When– when she goddamn _lies_ down next to you, too, which– which, God, you’re not prepared for. At all.

It feels like minutes have passed—they’re probably just a few seconds; seconds you spend trying to act nonchalantly asleep—when you take the blanket off of your face after all and whisper a timid, “Hey.”

“Hi,” she smiles back immediately—it’s by far the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen; it’s also _even_ better in real life than on the pictures you’ve seen—and you can’t do anything about the urge you get next—you _have_ to hug her, be closer to her, so– it’s what you do. You put your arms around her body, hold her close, breathe in her scent.

And, suddenly, it’s not messy anymore, at all, no—it’s perfect, and you feel at peace, and you want to stay in her arms forever. You realize that, yes, you were right all along. _She’s the one_. In this second, you just _know_.

So, yeah, you may have waited for ages for this, and you may have put yourself through hell at the airport, but it all seems worth the wait.

Because you _love_ her. And she loves _you._


End file.
